


PS 3529 
.B8 L4 
1890 
Copy 1 



E'GEND OF ST. PATRICK 



APOSTLE OF ERIN, 



BY 



M. C.'O'BYRNE, 



Author of "Upon This Rock." 



LA SALLE, ILL., 

Hennessey & Bostwick, Printers. 
1890. 



H 



H 



H 



PA- 



APOSTLE OF ERIN, 



BY 



M. C. O'BYRNE 



I 






Authok of "Upon This Rock." 

)V 25 1890 



LA SALLE, ILL., 

Hennessey & Bostwick, Printers. 

1890. 






COPYRIGHT, 1890. 

BY M. C. O'BYENE. 



REVERENDO 

R, J, C„ A, M„ 

Pastori, Monitori, et Amico, 

HIC LIBELLUS 

Reverentissime Offertur 
DEDICATURQUE. 



s 



A LEGEND OF ST, PATRICK, 



FYTTEI. 

Saint Patrick one night, 

In a terrible fright. 
Jumped up from his goose-feather heel; 

For a knock at the door 

Interrupted his snore,— 
A knock that might waken the dead. 

Had you or I, when snug and warm 
In bed beneath the clothes 

Been wakened thus rudely 

We might have sworn shrewdly, 
Turned round and completed the doze,— 
That is, if we could while an arm like a flail 
Thrashed out with the knocker a devils' reveil. 

But the patron of Erin 

Detested all swearing;— 

Some say that the first 

And last time he cursed 
Was when fishing one day 
On the banks of Lough Neagh, 

The great Peisthe Mor 

Crawled out on the shore, 

And seeing the line dangling, 
Guessed his Saintship was angling,— 
Aimed a blow at his skull which fie happened 
to miss, 
And got an immersion 
Through over exertion, 
Falling into the lake with a terrible hiss. 
"Ho, ho!" cried Saint Patrick, 
"Had I received that lick, 
'Twould have hashed all my mutton,— Anathema 
sis!" 

Be that as it may, 'twas a thundering knock 
Tempted Patrick to say, at eleven o'clock, 
"Who the devil is there?" 
Though the saint did not swear, 
But did, as the French say, the very contraire, 
For he muttered a blessing 
While hurriedly dressing, 
And then, with serenity worthy all praise, 
He sought to discover his Bryant and May's, 
Then a recent invention, but lately brought over 
By a sailor named Murphy who traded to Dover. 

At length he reached the big hall door, 



Where the rapping resounded more and more ; 
As brave as a lion, he slipped back the bolt, 
And swung the portal round,— 
One hand held a candle, the other a Colt, 
Carrying; bullets thirty-six to the pound. 

The door was opened, and the saint, 

Though bold as King Boru, 
Saw what would make a lady faint 

However deep the blue 
Shade of her hosen,— Mrs. B., 
Had she beheld the sight, 
Would find in her philosophy 
No fruits that could requite 
Her for the terror caused by such a shocking 
Rascal as he who seemed to have done the 
knocking. 

FYTTE II. 
Enshrouded in mystery, 

Who can discover 
Ireland's history 

Ere Patrick came over? 
Her battles and glories 

Are known to no person, 
Save to those who tell stories 
Like "Ossian" Macpherson, 
True, Erin had lyres 

Of wonderful power, 
And by Tara's proud fires 
Bards sang by the hour; 
But the yarns that they spun 

Were a little romantic, 
And ten chances to one 

That a listener pedantic 
Would cry "Credat Apella! 
This impudent fella 
Tells lies like Tom Pepper and swears they're 
authentic. 

But with lyre and liar 

'Tis always the way,— 
The hand must not tire, 
The tongue never stay. 
For Care, Haggard Rider, top-booted and spur- 
red 
Suggests that some rival, more wildly absurd 
And grotestque, may figure as drawing-room 
dandy, 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



Be dubbed Master Fool and be dry-nursed by 

Sandy. 

Who with ten lines of Greek, read defiant oi 

measure 

With broad Scotch inflections, will trumpet the 

treasure. 

For terror can board the brazen-beaked galley, 

As Horace assures us; the author of "She" 

Perchance in his dreams may find his Scotch 

valet 
Preferring rupees to the humbler bawbee 

As arles for his homage, full rightly discerning 
How best to dispose of, that's market, his learn- 
ing. 

"The learned pate ducks to the golden fool:" 
Alack, my masters ! can the love of pelf 

Degrade the scholar to the buffoon's tool, 
And make e'en Genius prostitute itself? 

O Rider, Rudyard ! spurn the sordid varlet 

Whose greed would make Calliope a harlot. 
There was a boy named Julius Caesar, 
Whose mother kept a shop in Rome, 
And day by day the youth would tease her 

To give him cash and leave to roam : 
For though by nature not a laggard, 
The boy, by reading Rider Hagg^fd, --- 
Great annalist of the age,— became 
On fire to climb the hill of fame ; 
He longed to occupy a place 
In the Waihalla of his race, 
To do great deeds that should proclaim 
Him great as Allan Quatermain, 
And win him immortality 
More permanent than that of "She." 
His fond mama, though loth to lose him, 
Was too indulgent to refuse him. 
So having made a little money 
By selling cheese and mel— that's honey- 
Went to the Horse Guards, near the Forum, 
Called for the Custos Rotulorum, 
Bought a commission for her Julie, 
And saw it signed and sigilled duly. 

A witty Frenchman,— politician 

Or poet, they are much the same 
In France,— defined the true position 

Of Mauritania, that's the name 
I give to Algiers : "Tis a region 

Wherein," said he, "our youths are made 
To serve in the Kabylean legion 

Instead of by a barricade 
In Paris." So the famous senate, 

The House of Commons of old Rome, 
Were wont to keep their fighting men at 

Some thousand miles away from home. 
Accordingly young Caesar packed his 



Martini -Henry, sword and lance, 
An opera-glass for target practice, 

And thus equipped set out for France. 
The native Gauls could never rightly 

Appreciate or understand 
The Roman rule, which pressed them tightly,— 

Which proves how savage was the land. 

Its barbarous princes and their forces, 
Disdaining civilized resources, 
Were wont at times to ease their feelings 
By bloody raids and cattle stealings : 
As old Scotch nobles near the border,— 
When urged to set their house in order,— 
Their oatmeal gone and winter coming, 
'Mongst English farms they went a bumming. 
Just such a party Julius met when 

He crossed the frontier into Gaul, 
But being courageous would not let men 

So ragged rob him of his all. 
So wheu their leader, one Dumnorix, 

Brandished his spear and shook his brand, 
Grinned and performed a hundred more tricks, 

Caesar resolved to show his hand, 
And, a Gaul's life being but a trifle, 
Shot the barbarian with his rifle. 

The fickle Gauls took great delight in 

Absinthe and gossip, save when fighting; 

They stopped the tourist on his way, 

And cried Bon jour! that is Good day! 

And while he paid the customs' dues 

They made him tell the latest news : 

And when a merchant, came to town 

Reporters swiftly ran him down, 

To learn his business, age and name, 

The prix courant and whence he came, 

The news he brought, the Kaiser's capers, 

Which things they published in the papers, 

Aud taking all they heard as true 

Deliberated what to do. 

Then, rash in council as in war, 

Scenting the battle from afar, 

They looked around to find a victim, 

Went out to fight and sometimes licked him; 

And being armed with spears and sabres, 

Though whipped themselves they plagued their 

neighbours. 
Trains being unknown, his way through France 
\oung Caesar made by diligence,— 
A sort of stage-coach, — in due course 
He joined his regiment, bought a horse, 
Was drilled and learned to drink champagne, 
Six months before his first campaign. 

Nine years or more were passed by Caesar 
In active service there in Gaul : 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



'Gainst savage tribes who crossed the Weser, 

'Gainst High Dutch, Low Dutch, one and 
all, 
He fought and vanquished; every city 

Whose gates were shut he took by storm, 
And being by nature prone to pity 

He made three million men reform. 
His plan was good, and I commend it 

To czars and kaisers, all who fear 
Sedition, for they soon may end it 

By Caesar's method, skill and care. 

Since might is right, —and who'll deny it 
That ever read Tom Carlyle's page? 

Be thorough : that's the secret, try it, 
You'll find it does not fail with age. 

Caesar killed millions, so they tell us, 

And made the others quiet fellows : 

By force of arms he civilized 'em 

And being a Pontifex, baptized 'em, 

That is, he would have done of course, 

Had Christian baptism been in force. 

One day, the war in Treves being over, 
The Roman "army sailed for Dover, 
Or somewhere else, the nearest high land 
They chanced to make on Britain's island 
(To make the land as sailors do it 
Means, as of course you know, to view it 
After a voyage) for General Caasar, 
Tired of French wines and liver pies. 
Hearing of Britain longed to seize her 
And make of her his noblest prize. 

The Britons, being a warlike people, 

Preferring liberty to Rome, 
Sounding alarms from every steeple, 

Prepared to drive the invader home. 
And sooth to say, these proud barbarians, 

Loved most to hear a call to fight, 
. Because they were not vegetarians, 

Milk and flesh meat being their delight : 
Britannia then was full of cattle, 

"Pecorum magnus Humerus," 
(See Gallic War, V. 12) and battle 

Gives joy to the carnivorous. 

And so the natives fought like lions 

To drive the Romans from the strand : 
Fought no less bravely than their scions 

Whose fame is heard in every land. 
But, history shows when barbarous forces 

Contend with valour trained and tried 
Their chance is small, success of course is 

Predestined to the nobler side : 
Though victory leans to the aggressor, 

While to man'sview this should not be, 



The eternal mills grind down the oppres- 
sor, 
The grist being ordered liberty. 
The Romans, Saxons, Danes and North- 
men, 
In turn all these the isle possessed, 

Which blending all in time brought forth 
men 
Whose might the world has long confessed. 
Though Caius Julius soon did make her 

Acknowledge Rome's supremacy, 
Not twice a Caesar now could break her, 
Our modern England, proud and free. 
So Cowper wrote while time parturient 

Another Caesar brought to birth, 
Who, victory-flushed, of fame esurient, 

Aspired to subjugate the earth. 
He, twice a Caesar, thunderbolt of war, 
Whose star of destiny shone o'er fallen 
thrones, 
Who filled earth's eyes with tears, Heaven's ear 
with moans, 

Essayed to rive the founded rock 
Of Britain, breathless from the shock, 
He fell and cursed his star. 

The Roman general, having quelled the 
British, 
Demanded hostages in pledge of peace ; 
Because he knew the race was fickle, skittish, 
With whom a treaty was an armistice, 
A truce or breathing-time ; experience told him 
'Twas easier to catch an eel than hold him. 
Among the hostages there was a maiden, 

Daughter of Segovax, a King of Kent, 
Conspicuous for her loveliness which made an 
Exciting topic even in Caesar's tent, 
While in the mess-room certain primipili 
Discussed it with strong ale till they werf* silly . 

Segonigaher name,— a patronymic 

Or appellation from the she derived, 
Which means just what you please, should any 
cynic 
This laxity rebuke, I have contrived 
To supplement and buttress my conjecture 
By Mr. Lang, who'll prove it in a lecture. 

MaJgre her name, Segoniga's rare beauty 
Impressed great Caesar, though a man of 
mind ; 
The artless maiden deemed consent a duty 
When urged by one whose greatness awed 
mankind; 
For aught that I can tell some love was thrown 
in, 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICE. 



Howbeit 'eluse partheniken zonen. 

To err is human ; living in glass houses 
Folks should be careful when they play with 
stones. 
God keep us honest, lovers, husbands, spouses ! 
Far from the risky light that beats on 
thrones ! 
Above all let us pray that opportunity 
May ne'er be ours to trespass with impunity. 

Winter being nigh at hand victorious Caesar, 

Secure of lasting fame, returned to Gaul ; 
The princess wept, and Julius to appease her 
Received her in his ship, the Capitol. 
The sea was choppy in the Straits of Dover, 
But after some sea-sickness they a;ot over. 

A man of action, though a sorry seaman, 

The hero's taste for dalliance quickly cloyed; 
And if a married man should keep a leman 
Too long his wife might justly feel annoyed ; 
There might be a divorce, a cause celebre. 
To render Julius odious to his neighbour. 

Of course she wept and tore her hair,— bar- 
barians 
Have hearts to feel when outraged or be- 
trayed ; 
The Britons though were latitudinarians 
In love ; the princess dried her eyes and laid 
Her sullenness aside when Caesar bought a 
House for the twain and married her to Cotta— 

A tall lieutenant and a famous fighter, 

But just a stick to bear in mind a date ; 
Too dull a man to comprehend the fright her 
First child's nativity brought to his mate; 
Six months of married life and this auspicious 
Event occurred,— they named the boy Patricius. 

Had Cotta been of a suspicious nature 

They might have called the baby Spurius, 
Though this experiment in nomenclature 
Might well have made the mother furious, 
For she was British, and they stood in fear 
Whene'er Segoniga stood on her ear. 

Thus Patrick was the name; for generations 

The family lived in comfort near Boulogne, 
And from it sprang the herald of the nations, 
The saint who is the hero of my song ; 
Good blood flowed in his veins, although some 

sceptic 
Has said that Caesar was an epileptic. 

And here ends fytte ye second of my story, 

Prolix it has been, but not too diffuse; 
For had there been no Caesar, Erin's glory 



Might never have been quickened, to reduce 
The Pagans 'neath the cross and to extermine 
Snakes, scorpions, centipedes, and all such 
vermin. 

FYTTE III. 

"Give me that man that is not passion's slave," 
(See Shakespeare's Hamlet, act 3rd., scene 
the second,) 
'•And I will wear,"— but here I think I'll waive 
Further quotation ; ataraxy's reckoned 
A sort of heavenly calm, attainable in fancy 
By spellbound Quietists lost in omphaloinancy. 

Who does not know, who knows his accidence, 

That Scipio drubbed the Carthaginian trader? 

He conquered him, of course at great expense, 

As being the foe of Borne, who would have 

made her 

Subordinate to Carthage; Scipio's reputation 

Conies rather from resisting sensual temptation. 

The Pagans taught this duty very well,— 

Horatius, Ovid, and a lot of others; 
Their lines read nicely, though the truth to tell 
Their lives were much like yours and mine, 
my brothers : 
The Hebrew king, too, wrote, ere woman made 

him flighty, 
"He that is slow to wrath is better than the 
mighty." 
Saint Patrick was not passion's slave, 

However great the provocation ; 
No Stoic could so well behave 

Himself in times of perturbation. 
Good breeding marked his ev^ry act, 

He stood unmoved in every crisis ; 
Displaying zeal allied with tact 

In combatting the chieftains' vices. 
When that his crosier pierced the foot 
Of that old king he was baptizing,— 
Who must have thrown aside his boot 
Like pious Moslems whose surprising 
Devotion makes them, when they go" 
To mosque, that's church, their shoes sur- 
render,— 
Nor saint nor King made any show 
Of pain, though royal flesh is tender. 

And so, when having overthrown 

In Magh Sleacht, or the Plain of Slaughter, 
Cromcruach, the giant pillar stone, 

Old Erin's Moloch, Patrick taught her 
The way of truth without a thought 

Of self, nor asking grace or kindness, 
, Although he knew some chieftains sought 

To kill him in their heathen blindness. 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



They slew O'Ran, his charioteer, 

Believing him to he the master, 
In going through Leinster, but the dear 

Saint Patrick only drove the faster, 
For he was brave and calm and cool, 

And knew wherein to place reliance, 
Too wise by far to play the fool 

By bidding angry men defiance. 
He would not palter, temporise, 

Or quibble to conciliate men ; 
With amphibology and lies 

He never tried to wheedle statesmen, 
In short, Saint Patrick w r as the type of pastor 
Whose life approves the doctrine of the Master. 

SjC Sg! ;jc sfs 

Now all this time that big hall door 

Has stood with bolt withdrawn, 
With Patrick standing on the floor 

Surveying a Shaughraun, 
That is a stray man, or 'a scamp, 
In modern parlance called a tramp. 
And sooth to say Saint Patrick cocked 

His pistol when he saw 
A man whose figure would have shocked 

A blanketted Choctaw. 

The native Irish w r ere not over chaste 
In dress, though always clothed below the waist, 
But Patrick's modesty was hurt, 

As it ne'er was before, 
To see a man without a shirt 
Standing outside the door,— 
A tall man, with long hair black as the raven, 
With face, except the upper lip, close shaven. 
The only dress this fellow wore 

Was a thin coat of paint, 
Dark blue in colour, though he bore 
Himself without restraint; 
No lounger in St. James's or Pall Mall 
E'er looked a calmer, more unconscious swell. 

"Pax cum domo et cum Patre!" 

Thus in Latin spoke the stranger, 
Hoping by judicious flattery 
To avert a threatened danger ; 
For a pistol pointed level 
At his head might scare the devil. 

"Pax, O f rater, et indusium !" 

That is, Peace and eke a shirt!— 
Though he wished him at Brundusium 
Not for worlds would Patrick hurt 
By wound or deed the stranger's feelings 
While he was honest in his dealings . 

Taking this as sign of favour, 



Bowing low the stranger stepped 
O'er the threshold, while a flavour 

Grateful to his nostrils crept 
Through the hall, for Lent being over 
Patrick's servants lived in clover. 

And as luck would have it, Nora, 

Fair factotum in the house, 
, Niece of Berraidhe of Kinkora, 

(Patrick's butler was her spouse), 
At that moment from the kitchen, 
Draped in raiment quite bewitching, 

Though a robe de nuit, came beaming 
From the basement with a steaming 

Flagon in her dexter hand, 
For her husband had a weakness, 
And his wife, the soul of meekness, 

Had fulfilled her lord's command ; 
Night by night, when all were sleeping 
But the twain the wife went creeping, 

Somewhere about twelve o'clock, 

To the kitchen in her smock, 
There to brew, her spouse to please, 
Whiskey toddy en chemise. 

Employed in this momentous matter, 
She did not hear the noise q'erhead, 
Although, as hath been said, the clatter 
Was loud enough to wake the dead : 
To folks absorbed in spirit pecks of trouble 
Come when they see too little or see double. 

Oh for a pen like that of Rudyard Kipling, 

Whose "Ditties"now, I hear, are all the rage 

Among the Upper Ten, whom every stripling 

Proclaims the Crichton of our sordid age ! 

Then might I show how Nora looked when 

fainting 
At sight of such a masterpiece of painting 
As he who, ravished by the heavenly smell 
From that bright tankard, seized it as she fell ; 
Seized it and raised his hand, 

Though not in malice ; 
Straightway he took a grand 

Swig from the chalice. 
One, two, and eke a third 
Draught had he taken, 
Nothing by shame deterred, 
While to awaken 
His faithful handmaid, Nora, toiled the saint, 
Who ne'er before had seen a woman faint. 
'Twas fortunate that as regards attire 

She could not have been in a better state 
To be recovered, and I much admire 
The good saint's fortitude who felt the 
weight 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



But little in his haste to give assistance,— 

Her fall was in the line of least resistance 
Eight in his arms,— he chafed her hands 
and face, 
Glad that there was no corset to unlace. 
And now the stranger, setting down the 
flagon, 
Came to the rescue with a grin inhuman ; 
With bony claws that might have shamed a 
dragon 
Grasping her arm, he rudely pinched the 
woman, 
While with a vet's dexterity he wrenched her 
Jaws wide apart and then with whiskey 
drenched her. 

Although his method can't he recommended, 
'Twas sure as quick, for Nora's swoon was 
ended : 
Kestored to sense, this female most erratic 
Gave a loud shriek and fled towards the 
attic. 

The stranger laughed : "Ha ha!" he shouted, 
"I thought 'twould serve, it was our way 

Before that hook-nosed Roman routed 
Our Kentish League and brtfke the sway 

Of Casibelaun o r er the Trinobantes"— 
"Fellow!" cried Patrick, "tell me what 
this rant is! 

What art thou, man or demon? for I never 

Saw such a fright before on land or ocean, 

And well I wot no baptised Christian ever 

Found such a dress conducive to devotion . 

Speak ! or I exorcise you 

And banish you to — well, 
I'd rather civilize you 
Than ban with book and bell : 
Art thou a man?" 

The stranger bowed his head : 
"I was one once, though now among the dead 

I lie forgotten by the sons of men, 
But not for ever, for great Caesar's pen 
Once wrote my name and linked it to his 
story, 
So that in coming years when all Rome's glory 

Shall only be a schoolboy's theme, 
In the bright halls of fame 
The Kentish patriot's name 
Shall nerve the warrior's arm, inspire the 
poet's dream. 
This is the noblest life, 
High immortality,— 
To know that when the strife 
Is o'er the brave may be 



Victorious over death ; 

The fallen patriot's sigh, 
The bard's expiring breath 
Can never wholly die; 
In all that made our truer, better part 
We live to animate some valiant heart." 

"Man!" cried the angry saint, 

"This heterodox position 
Would give your coat of paint 

Up to the Inquisition. 
But that the Irish Church 

Is famed for toleration, 
The rack and wheel should search 

Your bones in exculpation." 

"A thousand wheels and racks 
Were powerless to distress 

The joints of Segovax 

Or bring him to confess :" 
Thus quoth the stranger, while the startled host 
Drew back in terror from the royal ghost. 

"And art thou Segovax,] my great-great- 
grandsire?" 
"I am, my son, but come, my time is brief; 
Within my chamber burns a bog-oak fire, 
The very thing to give my bones relief, 
For rheumatism will afflict the body. 
Though spiritual,— don't forget the toddy. 
I have some secrets to disclose ; m Hades 
We learn these matters chiefly through the 
ladies." 

FYTTE IV. 

I wish that I could find an apt quotation 
To herald in this section of my tale 

And make it more imposing; observation 
Convinces me those authors seldom fail 

To take a high place in this age progressive 
Whose dearth of thought, concealed by words 
impressive, 

Is taken for profundity : in science 

You must use phrases that but few can speak ; 

This is the coming priesthood's main reliance 

'Gainst vulgarizing knowledge, hotch-potch 

Greek 

Gives them their terms, makes Nature private 

grazing, 
Converting simple truths to mysteries amazing. 

Omne ignotum pro magniflco, 
(Supply hahetur, reader, if you please), 

That is, those things of which the vulgar know 
But little always bring them to their knees 

In admiration when some knave, discerning 
Their native weakuess, dazzles them with 
learning. 



A LEGEND OP ST. PATRICK. 



While doctors of divinity are modest, 
As men whose learning no sane man will 
question, 
Your man of physic sometimes has the oddest 
Terms for wind colic or the indigestion ; 
For aught susceptible of plain description 
In English some would not write a prescription. 

A quack who makes some magic drug or heal all 

May, if he will, indulge in Anglo-Saxon 
To advertise his nostrum, for we seal all 
Such things up in their phials, put a tax on, 
And call them patent medicines, the solution 
Thus benefits the British Constitution. 

But when some Don of Medicine (opiferque 
Per orbem), with a crotchet, to advance it 
Writes to the press, Asclepios, what work we 
Poor laymen have to read him in the Lancet ! 
Though you know all the freaks of tense formation 
Sir Paeon's Greek will lead to irritation. 

It is not Science but the counterfeit 

Vain Sciolism, arrogant and proud, 
That loves to gratify its own conceit 
At the expense of knowledge, using loud 
High-sounding terms, impossible to rhyme, 
Which make the road to science hard to climb. 

Like that odd sophist whose peculiar mission 

Was to dislodge God from the universe 
And rob man of his soul, the first condition 
In this philosophy being the reverse 
Of common method, for he made the ideal 
The cause of all, the basis of the real. 

And having gifted matter with a spirit 

Inplanted or ingrafted, then maintained 
That man, the chief of beings, could inherit 
No energy that after death remained ; 
Ontologists affirmed this was a schism, 
The sophist called his creed Hylozoism. 

A thing of bombast and of words uncouth, . 

This cheerless doctrine scarcely came to birth 
Before it died dishonoured, for in sooth 
It bore no hope or solace to the earth : 
Live for to-day, it said, and some who taught it, 
Believing death was better, madly sought it. 



As well they might, for such a creed makes life 

A gladiator fight, whose only guerdon 
Is but a Dead Sea apple : when the strife 
Can thus be shunned how fond to bear the 
burden 
Of pain, defeat, the myriad pangs that grieve us, 
When Death can thus be summoned to relieve us? 



Without the expectation of our sires, 

The faith by which they saw beyond the veil 
Of time and circumstance, the spirit tires 
And human life becomes a tedious tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and passion, 
Men become base and women fools of fashion. 

Insensate mortals! is it worth the while 

To chase the marsh-fire if the end be death? 
Can sordid cares, ambitions, or the vile 
Pleasures that pall prolong the parting- 
breath? 
Drink of the sophist's cup if ye would smother 
The thought that this life but precedes another. 

Drink if ye will to drown the awful doubt 

That haunts ye like a spectre ; drink and when 
The toxic fumes inspire ye to flout 
The creed outworn, demean yourselves like 
men: 
Since death ends all, why should we propagate? 
Teach us by suicide to vanquish fate. 
Philosophy, what is it but a sieve 

For ever dipped by man in empty wells? 
A fruitless search, fit only to relieve 
Such itching ears as those Damascius tells 
Us once belonged to that wise Syrian ass 
Placed by Ammonianus in his class. 

The sapient beast, though longing for his hay, 

(Thus Photius tells the story) when his ears 

Caught learned phrases, with responsive neigh 

Evinced his pleasure, and when, full of years 

The donkey died, the riddle of the ages 

Was just as plain to him as to the sages. 

The world is full of evil and our span 
Of life is mainly sorrowful, and we 
Are prone to drift upon the current; man, 
Though purblind, strives to sound Infinity 
In search of God, and failing to descry Him, 
By baffled pride is prompted to deny Him. 

Yet now as ever God abides with man, 

We are his children, though in reason's pride 
We disavow our parentage and scan 
With purblind eyes the universe, the wide 
Expanse, th' Eternal Instant, never seeing 
The One in whom we live and have our being. 

While through the ages bishops, priests and 
deacons 
Have circumscribed the formless fount of 
form, 
Materializing God, there have been beacons 
In every age to brighten and to warm 
Man's higher nature; when he sends a witness 
God needs no human guarantee of fitness. 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



Paul and Spinoza, loftiest of their race, 

Each bore a message all can understand,— 
That He whose throne eternal fills all space 
Dwells not in temples made by human hand: 
All in Himself, yet all in every part, 
He builds an altar in each loving heart : 

The Eternal Presence, 

God uncreate, 
Whose being's essence 
Ts to create 
New forms from His own Being; 
Seen and unseen, all-seeing, 
The absent never : 

God One in Three 
And Three in One, 
To whose high majesty 
The ordered universe shall raise, 

For ever and for ever, 
Unintermitting, endless praise 
When time is done. 



There is in every dwelling 

A skeleton they say; 
A notion most repelling / 
To honest folks who pay 
Their rates and taxes and who never 
Have been accused of being clever. 

But when a healthy spectre, 

A veritable ghost, 
As bold as an inspector 
Of nuisances, takes post 
In one's arm-chair, disposed to chatter, 
A skeleton's a trifling matter. 

So when this ancient Briton, 

This Segovax of Kent, 
Took the best chair to sit on, 
The good Saint Patrick went 
Some distance off; though willing to be civil, 
He did not mean to hob-nob with the devil. 

Observing this, the stranger 
Smiled tranquilly and said; 

"My son, there is no danger 

In converse with the dead ; 
A time will come when, weary of life's tedium, 
The wisest men will seek a spirit medium." 

"Know'st thou the times and seasons, 

To whom the one true Light 
Was unrevealed, for reasons 
Sufficient in the sight 
Of Him to whom, 'tis said a thousand years 
But as one day of earthly time appears?" 



Thus spoke the saint, suspecting 

His guest's ability 
To speak the truth respecting 
The things that were to be : 
For prophets seldom come in so illegal 
A style of dress as that of Plague-Seer Eagle.* 

At that time though, the priesthood 

In Ireland were less 
Tasty in garb, the least good 
Of any modern dress 
Worn by the clergy or schismatic preachers 
Would have seemed vain to those old-fashioned 
teachers. 

That church is better builded, 
E'en though the cup be clay, 

Than if with chalice gilded 

An earthen priest should pray 
"Sanguis custodiat Domini!" of old 
The eucharists were served by priests of gold. 

"O Patrick!" said the other, 

"Thou knowest that the Light 
Hath shone on every brother 
That ever lived ; what right 
Hast thou to limit mercy? what a libel 
Some priestly notions are upon the Bible! 

"Enough of this however; 

I could perhaps unveil 
Secrets from which a clever 
Clairseacht could weave a tale 
More interesting to an Irish bishop 
Than all the yarns the bards are won't to dish up. 

"But 'tis not mine to harass 

Thy spirit with the tale 
Of discord, to embarrass 
Thy work in Inisfail, 
For doubtless 'twould in some sort tend to lame 

you 
To know that rival churches here will claim you. 

"Now to my charge : the message 

I bring to you is brief : 
My coming is the presage 
Of future years of grief; 
In Merlin's glass, revealed to each spectator, 
I have seen Ireland's bane— the Agitator. 



* Solomon Eagle, a Puritan fanatic who dui'ing 
the great plague of London, in 16G5, preached re- 
pentance, clothed only in the raiment he wore at 
his birth. 

+ Clairseach, the harp, per prosopopceiam for 
the minstrel. Segovax must have learned Irish in 
Hades. 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



"Compose thyself, and hearken 

While I to thee unfold 
The clouds that serve to darken 

Thy vision. When of old 
Great Merlin went to Hades 

(Not as men die died he, 
He simply went, his shade is 

In high authority 
Among us still) he brought us 

A mystic stone of fate, 
And in that crystal taught us 

To read man's earthly state. 

"Merlin, the greatest of all British sages, 
Whose fame with Arthur's* shall be sung in ages 
To come throughout the world, this stone orbi- 
cular, 
Obtained by means a trifle too particular 
Fof me to tell or you to know, a Mantis 
However brought it from the lost Atlantis, 
A distant country, long, as I've a notion, 
Resting in peace beneath the Western Ocean, 
And of whose people now the only trace is 
Found in this island; the Iberionaces, 
Or ancient Irish, were Atlantides, 
Whose source and root now lie beneath the seas. 
"Ten thousand years shall roll, 

And then shall come that throe 
Once more ; from pole to pole 

The mighty overflow 
Of Ocean's changing currents shall accrue 
On continent and isle, destroying to renew." 

"Not by water, but by fire 

Will the final purging be," 
Answered Patrick, "therefore, sire, 
Thy portentous prophecy, 
Though so definitely stated, 
God of old anticipated." 

"What is to be will be, my son; 

God is Order, his decrees, 
Fixed by his word, for ever run 

Steadfast and true ; but thoughts like these 
We will not discuss, the reason 
Being the lateness of the season, 
For the night is well-nigh done, 

A.nd my story not begun : 
Give ear to me while I unveil 

The mystery of Inisfail." t 

*This was, of course, prophetic, the visit of 
Segovax having occurred before Arthur or Mer- 
lin died. 

t Inis-fail, Insula-fati, the Isle of Destiny. The 
IAa-fail (stone of Destiny) is in the coronation 
chair of the monarchs of Great Britain and 
Ireland. 



FYTTE V. 

THE PROPHECY OF SEGOVAX. 

"O Patrick, in whose veins there runs the blood 
Of conqueror and conquered, know that now, 
E'en while I speak to thee, adown the flood 
Of royal Thamesis the sculptured prow 
Of the last Roman galley nears the sea 
In base desertion, leaving Britain free, 

But helpless; for her sons, unskilled in war, 
For centuries unmanned, must fall the prey 
Of Pict and Scot, of strangers from the far 
And untamed north; let loose by Rome's decay, 
Horde after horde successively shall sweep, 
White horse and raven, o'er the startled deep. 
"Well for the seagirt isle 
In after time to know 
That steadfast strength can meet the wile 
Of him whose treason would beguile. 
That manly vigilance can smile 

At every foreign foe. 
To earth's remotest strand 
Her glory shall increase : 
So long as British heart and hand 
Fearless and strong united stand, 
To do or die for fatherland, 
In Britain shall be peace. 

"In Merlin's crystal, the Atlantean stone, 
I saw two islands linked by bands of steel,— 
Bands forged in blood and hate,— the lesser 

thrown 
Exhausted, worn beneath the other's heel : 
I saw the long-drawn strife of centuries cease, 
I saw two sisters give the kiss of peace. 

Beneath an olive branch they stood, the one 

In queenly majesty, her golden hair, 

With many a braid and torque adroitly done, 

Beneath a diadem, where divers rare 

And priceless jewels shone with shivering ray, 

The tribute of all lands that own her sway. 

The other lissom, coy, and beautiful, 
In whose fair features every passing thought 
Of the pure soul within was mirrored full 
As clouds are on the lake; her kirtle, wrought 
Of emerald green with golden trefoil pressed, 
Showed the glad throbbing of her virgin breast. 
"Thus stood the sisters twain, 
The strife of years was o'er : 
From Britain's flag the crimson stain 
Was gone, and Erin's cry of pain 
No longer rang across the main, 

Or echoed by the shore. 
And o'er the Western Sea 
The sparkling billows hurled 



10 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



Tlieir silvern crests in tuneful glee, 
And in their giant minstrelsy 
Was heard the chorus of a free, 
A trans- Atlantic world. 

"And then I saw, the while the nations hailed 
The sisters reconciled, that Discord came 
With poisoned Dreath; I saw that Erin quailed 
Before the monster, saw the wrathful flame 
In Britain's eye when, with unsparing hand, 
The witch sowed greed and malice through the 
land. 

And what a crop was there! suspicion, fraud, 

Envy, deception, dark conspiracy; 

While from the shuddering soil there rose to God 

The odour of the blood-fume; secrecy 

Begat distrust, and from distrust sprang hate, 

In turn incestuously to generate. 

"Yet while the miscreant crew 

Their heil-born rage displayed, 
In close embrace the sisters two 
United stood, for Erin knew 
Her queenly sister's will to do 

Strict justice undismayed. 
But though Britannia yearned 

To soothe the wild alarm, ^ 
The rebel crew her bounty spurned, 
Her proffered amity they turned 
To sign of fear : erewhile they learned 

The vigour of her arm. 

"Again and yet again the baneful clan 

Were scourged by that strong arm : with horrid 

yell 
Some sought their dens, while others screeching 

ran 
Now hither and now thither, fires of hell 
Inciting them, while in the assassin's hand 
The gory steel besprinkled all the land. 

Among her counsellors Britannia found 

Dissension, disagreement, wavering: 

In party strife the patriot's voice was drowned , 

With many a pseudo-patriot favouring 

A. strange expedient, saying to release 

Erin from Britain would secure peace. 

Then saw I, while confusion wilder grew 
And all the welkin rang, two champions rise ; 
The one, with virgin shield, pledged to subdue 
The rebel gang; upon his brow emprise 
And dauntless courage sat, a loyal knight, 
Acute in counsel, valorous in fight. 

"Balphurius his name, 
Defender of the laws ; 
He quelled the strife, expelled the shame 
From Erin ,and restored her fame, 



While all the world in glad acclaim 

Besounded with applause. 
Nature herself grew bland 
In sympathy with peace, 
And scattered with a lavish hand 
Her fruits and flowers o'er the land, 
Bidding the happy valleys stand 
With the full ear's increase. 
"Yet faction was not dead, for when it seemed 
That peace and plenty would ensure content, 
There came a combatant whose falchion gleamed 
Above his naked arm, his shield besprent 
With lions, 'Lamb laider na< htar*! he cried, 
'The strong hand uppermost!' and thus defied 

Balphurius to the combat, while the horde, 
Erewhile affrighted, dared the light of day 
Once more and sought a refuge where the sword 
Of their new champion, eager for the fray, 
Flashed o'er that arm embowed, and loud and 

long 
Bose the wild pledge of triumph to the strong. 
Kose the wild pledge ; but ere its echo died 
Steel clashed on steel, on shield and ringing helm , 
Where' midway on the plain the changeful tide 
Of battle wavered, threatening to o'erwhelm 
Now one, now both; I saw the lion shield 
And him who bore it prostrate on the field. 

But like Antaeus, when he touched the plain 
New vigour seemed imparted to his arm; 
Like one refreshed with wine he sprang again 
To combat, ere Balphurius could disarm 
Or give the mercy stroke, the while his hand 
Retained within firm grip the glittering brand. 

"And when again he fell, 

He fell again to rise ; 
And when she heard the plaudits swell 
From Discord's host his praise to tell, 
I saw that Erin loved him well, 

For tears were in her eyes. 
For he was Erin's son. 

Misled alas ! but true 
To those he served: no recreant one, 
To deem the battle lost and won 
While there remained one deed undone 

That valiant hand might do. 
"Firm as the primal granite stood the knight. 
Order's brave champion, conscious of his 
strength, 

Intrepid in the faith that, born of right, 

Can trust the end to God, who when the length 

* If his heraldr.y was correct, it would seem 
that Segovax must have had in view a descendant 
of Blod the son of Cas, the son of Conal. 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



11 



Of the wrong-doer's tether has been spread, 
Sends Atropos to cut the fatal thread. 

And then I saw him of the lion shield 
Draw back with crest plume-shorn and bat- 
tered mail, 
Leaving Balphurius master of the field, 
While Discord shook to see her champion fail; 
And on the victor's head the sisters placed 
A rosy wreath with shamrock interlaced. 
When lo! there came, with pitying, tender face, 
And bearing healing balms, a maiden clad 
In costly raiment, daughter of a race 
Once chosen for its constancy, the sad 
Cosmopolites whose noblest sentiment 
Belongs to discounting and cent per cent. 

She came from fair Lutetia, and the spoil 
Of Egypt and the Philistines washers; 
She^ame by pity urged to pour the oil 
Of sympathy and lov^e: the conqueror's 
Cause, so men say, is pleasing to the gods,— 
Some mortals though prefer to take the odds, 

And siding with the vanquished share their fate : 
E'en so this alien virgin succour brought 
To the defeated warrior ; while the great 
Balphurius triumphed, Rafaela wrought 
A miracle of love, ere long her knight 
In golden armour stood prepared to fight. 

'Haste thou,' she cried, 'O valiant heart and true, 
To urge the poor man's cause, to shield th' op- 
pressed ! 

Bethink thee,'— this w r as whispered,— 'those*who 
do 

Knight-errantry to-day will do it best 

With gold, not steel; thy indigent position 

Hath traversed and retarded thy ambition.' 

Thus spoke the maid, thus speaking was she 
wise ; 

For in the years to come, O Patrick, gold 

Shall be the test of merit and the prize 

That all shall seek. When avarice shall hold 

The world in thraldom, shorten Thou the days, 

O Power Supreme, and Thine shall be the praise! 

"There are two souls in man, 

In constant strife within ; 
The one controlled by Ahriman, 
The Lord of Evil, through whose ban 
The universe since time began 

Has been denied by sin. 
Ormuzcl the other guides, 

Through whom all virtues flow ; 
And while on earth the man abides 
The dubious conflict ne'er subsides, 
His future fate that strife decides, 

Whether for weal or woe. 



'"Not in the glare of day 
Is seen man's nobler self; 

Patrick, heed not those who say 
That by our deeds our motives may 

Be judged; where selfishness hath sway 

The mind deceives itself. 
But in the silent night, 

When only God is near, 
Beneath the twinkling stars whose bright 
Effulgence shames our mortal sight, 
Just as he seems in heaven's light 

The true man doth appear." 

He ceased, and fell to drinking 

With such an eager thirst, 
That good Saint Patrick, thinking 

The prophecy should first 
Be finished, ventured the suggestion 
That Segovax should not forget the question. 

"The question? Oh, you want to know the end," 
Quoth Segovax, "of the great Irish duel : 

1 wish I could oblige you, but, my friend, 
In this respect old Merlin has been cruel ; 

For just as this great strife Degan to enlist all 
My sympathies, he took away the crystal* 

"But lo! the dawn is breaking, 

The cock prepares to crow; 
And I must soon be taking 

My course to realms below. 
Five hundred years will pass ere 

I can return to earth, 
And things may come to pass here 

To make it little worth 
My while to leave a cosy nook in hell;— 
Since time is short, suppose we spend it well? 

"I drink to thee, O Patron 

Of Erin, and to her, 
The not uncomely matron 

Whose skill I can aver 
In making punch is excellent,— to Nora, 
The prettiest wencb that ever left Kinkora ! 
Would she were here ! to please her 

Bacchus ! I fain would sing 
A song once sung by Caesar 

In honour of a king, 
A British king, for mirth and wisdom famed 
From whom the town of Colchester is named. 

'Twas thus we sang in chorus, 
With flagons raised on high, 

And ere to bed they bore us 
We left those flagons dry. 
'■Bex Colens annosus 
Senex eratjocosus: 



12 



A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 



Poposcit tuhum, 

Calicem vitreum, 

Fidicines ires, 

Duas virgines. 
Vini amavit spiritus, 
Rex vinipotor Coleus; 

Eja, made esto! 
Vah, papae! 
Eja, made esto! 

Vah, papae!'" 

Brekekekex, Koax, Koax, 
Such was the voice of Segovax ; 
"We know from Aristophanes 
The raucous frogs sing notes like these. 
Thus was he singing when the cock's shrill note 
Kose loud and clear; the song died in his throat; 
And then he vanished: Patrick stared to find 
His visitor had left no trace behind 
Except an empty tankard: with the morning 
Came Nora and her spouse to give him warning. 



Vision or dream, the Briton's prophecy 
Time hath in part established : rest we here 
Content, nor grieve because we may not see 
The future of our race. We ne^d no seer 
To fortify our courage ; come what may 
Of darkest night, the dawning of the day 
Shall find Britannia still the nations' pride, 
The home where Law and Liberty abide. 
God bless Old England ! though mine eyes 

ne'er 
"Behold her shores, this is the exile's prayer. 



may 



FINIS. 



NOTES. 

Page 1, Col. 2.— Shade of her hosen—Mrs. B. 
—The "philosophy" here alluded to may be 
characterized as Sinning-made-easy, whose prin- 
ciples it would in our age be a work of superero- 
gation to explain. 

Page 2, Col. l.—A witty Frenchman, etc.— 
The unfortunate Prevost Paradol. 



Ibid., Col. 2. — One Dumnorix. — To whose 
manes due apology is made for antedating his 
decease which took place, by Caesar's order, 
immediately before the second expedition into 
Britain. See Be Bell. Gall., V. 7. 

Page 3, Col. 2.— Thunderbolt of war.— An 
epithet borrowed from Virgil: "autgeminos, di o 
fulmina belli, Scipiadas" (iEneid. VI. 841,2), but 
much more appropriate to Napoleon. 

Ibid.— Daughter of Segovax.— "Quattuor reges 

Cingetorix, Carvilius, Taximagulus, 

Segovax," (De Bell, Gall., V. 22). 

Ibid.— Certain primipili. --Chief centurions, or 
captains, of legions. 

Page 4, Col. l.— - Married her to Cotta.— Marcus 
Cotta, an historical character. He was Gover- 
nor of Sardinia, and was driven out by the Cara- 
litani (people of Cagliari) during the Civil War. 
(De Bell. Civ., I, 30). 

Page 7, Col. l.—The sophist called, etc.— Hylo- 
zoism, Hylo-Idealism, Ideal-Hylozoism, Autos- 
ism, et alia nomina. The materialists, however, 
have recognized the absurdity of basing their 
doctrine upon the Spiritism of Bishop Ber- 
keley. 

Ibid., Col. 2.— Syrian ass.— Suidas, sub voce 
"Damaskios," calls the animal "an ass very 
studious of wisdom." The genus is not yet ex- 
tinct in our schools of metaphysics, to say noth- 
ing of other schools. 

Page 8, Col. 1.— Paul and Spinoza.— Even 
such religious men as Gideon and David, among 
the Hebrews, bowed down before an image 
(aphod) of Jehovah. In the Tractatus Theol. — 
polit., Spinoza affirms that "Scripture is called 
the word of God, nempe quia veram docet reli- 
gionem, cujus Deus ceternus est auctor." In the 
juventus mundi, as Giordano Bruno called 
antiquity, man could hardly avoid anthropomor- 
phism in theology ; in our day, at least among the 
cultured, there can be no excuse for idolatry. 
"God is a spirit," etc. St. John, IV, 24; I Tim., 
I, 17; VI, 16. 




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